


What Makes for a Good Bard

by Tea_and_roses



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (sort of), Body Image, Chubby Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Good at Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_roses/pseuds/Tea_and_roses
Summary: As autumn previews winter, Jaskier sulks over clothes not fitting correctly, and Geralt sets about making things right (read: making bards feel better about themselves).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 127





	What Makes for a Good Bard

**Author's Note:**

> Rated "T" for a bit of body image stuff. However, there will also be fluffy and effective comfort.

The inn was not impressive, but it was halfway decent, and they’d certainly done worse. Their room had a small, smoky fire in the hearth. There had been a snap of winter weather in autumn, and Geralt had not thought Jaskier would fare well sleeping outside, so they'd spent an entire week’s worth of evenings at an inn, safely indoors, where Jaskier belonged. Geralt had hoped this would please Jaskier, but apparently it did not.

The bard was cross and too warm and blushing as he undressed.

“ ’ All right?” Geralt asked hesitantly, from where he was sitting on the side of the bed removing his boots. Jaskier was turned away in an uncharacteristic fit of modesty and wrenching on his sleeping shirt as if it offended him.

“Perfectly so,” chirped Jaskier, pretending nothing was wrong.

“You don’t sound ‘perfect,’” Geralt informed him. “Nor do you smell it.”

“Well, I apologize that me bathing once a day isn’t good enough for your witcher sensibilities,” huffed Jaskier, his tone haughty and bordering on noble.

Geralt made a chagrined sound between a sigh and a growl at himself and tried to find words. “…Not what I meant.”

“Then _what_ , Geralt?!” Jaskier, still wearing his breeches beneath the sleeping shirt, turned around at last and crossed his arms.

“Just wondering what’s wrong,” said the witcher mildly.

“I already told you, _nothing_.”

Geralt did not mind that it was difficult at times to work around Jaskier’s emotions. A witcher could be very patient, as well as clever.

“You smell angry. That’s all I meant.”

“Well, maybe I am.” Now Jaskier was hurt, and blinking back tears.

“Did someone offend you at your performance?”

“No.”

“Did _I_ do something that bothered you?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier took a step toward the bed and Geralt, and then stopped himself abruptly. It was all very strange, and Geralt couldn’t quite keep down the rising wave of concern.

“Are you hurt?”

“No… not really.”

“Jaskier—” Geralt stood up.

“I just—” Jaskier turned aside with a sigh. “I already know, okay, that ‘a good bard is a thin bard.’ You don’t need to inform me, or remind me. _I know_.”

“Why— hmm.” Geralt held himself back from crossing the room to Jaskier, and instead sat down again on the bed. Any question of why Jaskier was concerned about this odd platitude at this particular moment was answered in the way shame flooded the room, radiating from a very distraught bard. One who was still half-dressed in overly snug performing clothes beneath his sleeping clothes.

“Wisdom from Valdo Marx?” tried Geralt.

“The one and only.” Jaskier sighed.

“That’s not what witchers think, you know.”

“Mm-hm. Geralt, I am not convinced you need to be one-upping Valdo Marx in making me feel bad. You’ll be much better at it, I’m sure, just like you usually are at things.”

Well, that wasn’t right.

“What do you think I’ll say?” asked Geralt, frowning.

“Oh, let me guess: to witchers, a _live_ bard is a thin bard. Can’t get out of shape. Can’t get slow! Can’t get—”

“You’re a fucking bard,” interrupted Geralt. “That’s not at all what I was going to say.”

“You are _always_ telling me that witchers—”

“ _Witchers_ ,” repeated Geralt firmly. “Not bards.”

Jaskier huffed another sigh. “What do witchers think, then?”

 _That it’s a stupid piece of cloth and you should be sleeping_ , thought Geralt, though he did not say that.

“That a well-fed bard is a good bard,” he offered.

Jaskier sputtered a laugh. “As if,” he scoffed. “You don’t have to lie, Geralt; you can leave that to bards, fed or otherwise.”

“It’s not a lie,” said Geralt with a shrug.

“I scarcely think witchers interrupt their brooding and sweating and monster-slaying to have a nice chat about what bards ought to look like,” said Jaskier. “Much less do I expect they approve of anyone putting on excess weight.”

Geralt looked as impassive as possible. This usually frustrated humans during arguments, but perhaps here it would provide some comfort.

“If you have enough coin to feed yourself, you must have some skill,” he explained. “Seems like in a bard that should be acceptable.”

Perhaps this reasoning worked, for Jaskier did seem less worked up. It seemed sensible enough to Geralt.

“So you’re saying,” said Jaskier archly, “that you think I should be happy my clothes are too tight, and see it as a mark of professional success?”

Geralt met the bard’s gaze, which seemed to be daring him to make fun, and leveled golden eyes at Jaskier.

“I am."

“I don’t think all witchers think that,” Jaskier accused, but beneath the tease in his voice, his smile was warm and impossibly fond.

“Perhaps not,” conceded Geralt. “You think all bards believe that nonsense of Valdo’s?”

“Point well taken.” Jaskier smiled across the room at him, dimpling pink cheeks.

Satisfied that Jaskier no longer smelled miserable, Geralt allowed himself to get into bed, checking with a glance that his swords were within reach under the bed and the room was in order.

“Go to bed, bard,” he said.

Jaskier murmured something affirmative to this, though he did not.

If instead, when the bard finished prying himself out of the offending breeches, he spent a while sitting below the moonlit window with his lute, softly composing a new song to Geralt, well, the witcher found he did not mind this at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Things I have done as of this fic: read both the short stories books and seen Season 1 of the show.  
> Things I have not done: played the games or read all the novels.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I really love these two. Thank you for reading!


End file.
